


In a Galaxy Far Away

by Flower_Flame_Princess



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bisexual Steve Rogers, Gen, Hurt Steve Rogers, I Don't Even Know, Kidnapped Steve Rogers, Kidnapping, Minor Gamora/Peter Quill, Nebula is a Good Bro (Marvel), Outer Space, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Movie: Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Ravagers - Freeform, Space Battles, Space Pirates, Steve Rogers Goes To Space, The Ravagers - Freeform, What Was I Thinking?, Who Cares About Time Lines, Yondu Udonta Lives, space travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 04:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26346829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flower_Flame_Princess/pseuds/Flower_Flame_Princess
Summary: When Steve woke up with a pounding head and a swimming vision, unable to move his arms and legs, he thought it was just another attempted kidnapping. However, when he bolted out and was met with a horizon of star formations and planets that he had never seen before, he realized he was not on Earth anymore.Not that the deep blue skin of the man they called "Captain" hadn't been a dead giveaway in the first place.|X|Steve goes on a Space Adventure, and ends up with way more than he bargained for.
Relationships: Steve Rogers & Yondu Udonta
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	In a Galaxy Far Away

A deep voice drummed through his dreamless sleep, disrupting the darkness that had thrown itself over him like a blanket, bugging his mind with wakefulness that he had no interest to pursue, and his head seemed to hurt.

With short pulses, he was dragged back to consciousness, leaving the blissful state of forced sleep he had been in. With his eyes still closed, he tried to recall what had happened before he was so rudely brought to sleep. But even though he tried so hard, he remembered little. The thing was, he was even barely aware of his own existence. It was like he was floating through a world of static, a kind of out of body experience. And he was rocking.

It was a strange feeling, especially since he was still so barely awake. He was not sure which way he was moving, but it was certainly peculiar. Up and down, left and right, and then he swooped down diagonally, like a strange fall.

Blood pounded painfully in his head, a throbbing that was accentuated by a steady movement of something that lay outside of his reach and knowledge. A constant, rhythmic drum quaked through his spine up to the back of his head where it delivered a sharp sting that bloomed up with each drum, and which made him see bright spots even though he had his eyes closed. The throb was not even containing itself as it traveled down his arms and into his chest, all pulsing in pain and never at once. His head would pulse and then his chest and then an arm and then his chest again and it was too random to predict where the pain would hit.

His eyelids fluttered, not opening, lashes quivering. Either he was half-conscious, or someone had glued his eyes shut, because no matter how hard he tried, he could not open them. More than a flutter never happened.

Everything around and in his head was fuzzy, like a cloud was hanging low and obscuring his mind with fog. His mouth was strangely dry, like he had not had any water for days while dragging himself through a hot desert, and his arms and legs hurt. His shoulder also hurt. Everything seemed to hurt. His body felt stiff, cramped, but he did not know why. Why was his head hurting? He had slept deeply, right? When he did not sleep for a while his head always started hurting, but he felt like he had just slept for quite some time. Perhaps he was dehydrated, that made his head hurt too.

Then, there was the voice.

It filtered through the haze of his mind. A voice that would not stop talking. It rattled a bunch of words and then went back to silence, only to rattle more words a minute or so later. It was not necessarily an annoying voice, it sounded deep, slightly husky, but mostly smooth, like it had a certain melody, but yet harsh. An accent, Steve realized then. Whoever was talking had an accented rattle of a voice, which would explain why he had such trouble to understand any of the words. It was certainly not a familiar voice, he knew as much, not anything like he had ever heard before, and he had met quite some people in his life.

As he tried to move his legs, a low throb of pain dragged up his spine. Steve groaned, softly, and it was then that he noticed something had been stuffed into his mouth. It was not quite cotton, but something sturdier. It was like a bit, something made of a material that he could not bite through that easily. That could not be good. And it was when he tried to lift his hands to remove that piece of cloth, the odd thing that did not belong in his mouth, that he found out his arms were stuck. He tried to move his legs, but they were stuck together as well. A slight panic began to rise.

He tried to lift his head, tensing the muscles in his chest and stomach so that he could pull himself up from whatever harsh ground he was lying on. From his position on the floor, there was not much to see. Not that the blur in his vision allowed him to see much at all, but sitting up would be the best course of action. He would be able to assess his situation, mind his surroundings, and perhaps even chase away the haze that hung in his head. With that in mind, he moved his bound hands as to get himself up from the floor.

Or at least, that was what he _tried_ to do.

The moment he shifted his arms closer to his body, rolling over to his side a little more to push himself up, wiggling to try and get more comfortable, there was a loud creak of metal, and then an open hand collided with the back of his head in a sharp hit. It had not even been that hard, certainly not enough to knock him out again, but hard enough to get the intended message through. He was not alone, and whoever was with him did not want him to move. Steve got the hint and stilled on the floor, trying to relax so his shoulders and neck would not cramp up so much.

As he took another deep breath, flashes of the moment before darkness bubbled up in his memory, and he recalled a strange noise, distraction, a red flash of a long, pointy thing zipping passed his eyes, than a harsh thump and a blinding pain that had shot through his head before his world turned dark. Come to think of it, the annoying throbbing in the back of his head may have come from that blow. Someone had hit him across the head. 

He swallowed, blinking as to make the blurs disappear, and he tried to wake himself up more. He needed to be alert, vigilant. When the calm rocking of what he supposed was a vehicle continued, he felt discomfort crawl his skin when he realized that he saw nothing but a set of leather boots placed on the ground, legs dangling across something. There was a grey structure as well. A seat? He let out a puff of breath, turning his head back slowly as to not add to the pounding in his head.

All of it was a helplessness he remembered from long ago, the inability to change anything from his current situation that he wanted to escape from so badly, and that hurt as much, if not more, than the pain in his head.

When he had been small and weak, never backing down from a fight even if that meant stumbling home with a bloodied lip and a few more bruises, he promised himself that one day it would all change. One day, he would not be helpless and weak, trying to stand up but get knocked down every time. He would be able to stay up, and fight. Fight against the bullies, fight against the helplessness. He was right back to that helplessness, feeling as though he could do nothing but lie uselessly as they crossed roads, getting further and further away from where he had been before. From his home.

Carefully, he lifted his head up a bit, peering through his half-lidded eyes at his surroundings, trying to look for anything that would help him recognize where he was, or what he was in. He needed to know how many people there were around him, if they were armed, where any potential doors were, so that, if he did manage to escape, he would be able to find his way back home. He silently mourned his shield, as he doubted his captor would have taken it with them.

Before he could properly lift his head to take a look around and figure out where he was, his captor had noticed the movement, did not agree with it, and it earned him another sharp blow to the back of his head.

A noise of pain slipped out between his lips when the hand hit the spot where the pain originated from, sending another spike of blinding agony through his head that filled his vision with colorful, bright spots, and he sagged back to the floor, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. After a second or two, the hand moved, settling down gently on his shoulder, as though it meant to offer some comfort, something akin to an unspoken apology. It told him that whoever his captor was, they were not unnecessary cruel. It told him that they did not take some kind of pleasure out of knocking him down and capturing him, but they were still firm enough to let him know clearly that they were in control, nonetheless.

Again, he wondered who it was, and what they were planning to do with them once they had reached where they were headed.

As the seconds passed, Steve started to feel more aware of himself, waking up more and more from his strange sleep that he was sure had been a state of unconsciousness. He was too tired still to open his eyes fully, and there was an annoying throb in his head. Slowly but surely, more parts of his mind started to drift to the surface, and he was able to think a little clearer.

His captor was a man, he knew as much. A man who was not cruel, but firm, and Steve had not gotten a single look at him. Not even a vague one. He shook his head a little, then refrained from doing that again as it felt like his brain was smashed against his skull. He wanted to figure out what was going on at all. His thinking should be better than this, it was almost embarrassing. Well, not quite as embarrassing as lying draped across the floor with his hands and legs bound, but still embarrassing.

And he could not get rid of the feeling he was forgetting something important, something vital. He remembered a group of strange soldiers, wielding weapons he had never seen before, their appearance one of the strangest he had seen before. They had been wearing dark red clothes, pants and jacket alike, as if they were all part of some sort of gang. They had been looking for something, Steve knew as much. They had been walking around without having any idea about the man of war hiding in the thicket like a spider.

All he wanted was to get the mission over with, and now the Gods knew what would happen to him.

Cracking his eyes open once more, determined to get that look around, the first thing he saw was that pair of boots again, made of a black kind of material that had faded after a long time of repeated usage. The pair looked well-worn, and the nose of one of them tapped down on the floor in a steady rhythm. Steve got a little dizzy looking at it, so he dipped his head while on the floor, as to take a look at the seat. It was definitely some kind of chair, but not a normal one with four legs. It looked like the front chair of the Quinjet, the one where the pilot sat.

When he dipped his head just a little more, he could peek along the sturdy iron construction that supported the chair. It seemed to be able to move, and Steve supposed that the sound he had heard earlier before getting hit must have been the chair turning sideways. Beyond that metal frame, his eyes fell onto a wall that seemed to exist of lights blinking in dizzying patterns, cables that twisted and turned to fit into various small portals, and handles and switches flipped alternately up and down. He had no idea what they were for, but he thought knowing of their existence would help him already.

It told him that, wherever he was, the vehicle he was in was probably a plane of some sort. Judging from the odd buttons and lights, it was not quite a plane that he was familiar with, as usually the buttons and switches were located on the dashboard with the steering wheel, but it made it clear that he was _not_ in any kind of car. Though he supposed that he could be in a boat as well. A large ship, swaying on the waves. Beneath his head he could feel the thrill of an engine, and hear the murmur and frizzing of electrical charges behind the walls.

"I know what y'r tryin'a do, boy," a voice then spoke up, the harsh trill of the accent drumming through his head as it snapped him out of his thoughts, making him freeze in his movements and he listened carefully. "Just lay still 'n I won' hafta whack you on the noggin' again."

The man really had a heavy accent, which meant it had not been a concussion playing tricks on him. That was a relief. He had been hit on the back of his head hard enough to be knocked out cold, so the possibility of heavy damage really was not that unlikely. It certainly explained the headache, though he was lucky to have enhanced healing abilities; he already felt better than he had a few minutes ago. 

Not wanting to get hit again where it hurt so much, and be send into a spin of pain, dizziness and nausea, he lay still, but not before he, with obvious movements, shifted the position of his body. He made it look like he was just getting more comfortable, but actually he was changing his position so he could take a better look at the back of the room. If the man in the chair was staring out at any kind of dashboard or steering wheel, or anything else, that meant there had to be a door. And where there was a door, there was a way out.

He would not hang around to see what these men had planned for him, he would rather escape and come back later with his team to figure that out.

For now, he decided he would wait. Of course, the longer he waited, the further his captors could remove him from his home, but Steve had been across the world before. He had been to nearly all countries and all places, he spoke many languages, so he thought he would be alright. Wandering for hours through a forest, desert, or mountains would all be better than being kidnapped and sold to scientists or any kind of dangerous men. He could go on for days on barely anything. He would make it.

And besides, his hands and ankles were bound, so he would have to free himself first. With the man that sat on the chair next to him, that would be nearly impossible, as he saw exactly what Steve was doing and when. That was why, he supposed, the man had put him there in the first place. To keep an eye on him. It would also be his mistake, because this only meant that Steve had access to a crew member, and what seemed to be a control room of whatever plane or ship he was in.

He could take over, and even if he could not steer the craft, he could still send it for a spin. If they went as far as to knock him out, bind him, and drag him on board of a vehicle, he did not consider them to be in the grey area anymore, and they were plain enemies. Threats. They had made their attack, so Steve felt little remorse for countering it with his own.

He would wait for his chance, take his time so he would make no mistakes. This was an opportunity. He was not in a cell, not bound in heavy shackles or stuffed in some sort of container. He was out in the open, and perhaps the cuffs that held him would not be able to withstand the full power of a super soldier. He would wait for the man to let down his guard, so that Steve could jump up and strike. He would wait for the headache and the pains to fade, and then he would make his move.

With that thought in mind, he closed his eyes as he lay on the cold floor, and he brought himself to the edge of another slumber, catching that small moment of sleep to charge his batteries.

**X**

It was that same voice that stirred him out of his sleep once more. A harsh set of words, something of annoyance sounding through to someone else who was now present in the room as well. Steve did not open his eyes, but he was awake. Though his body was a little sore from his position on the floor, the pain that had throbbed through his head after the blow had subsided, and he was glad to notice that his thoughts were more organized. 

"Can't'cha do 't y'rself?" the man in the pilot chair asked, the low creak that Steve heard suggesting that he had turned it. "'m a little busy!"

"I'm sorry," a second voice spoke, holding a minute tremble at the edges, a sense of nervousness that Steve knew well. There was a surprising lot that this new voice told him, from the man in the chair being a Captain, thus most likely being the leader of the bunch that had taken him, to the placement of the door in the control room. It was where he had guessed it was before, the far wall opposite to the chair the Captain sat in. "But Capt'n, they're fighin' again, and you know the lot just won’t listen to me."

Alright, this told him there was a crew. More people. This man was their Captain, their _leader_. Steve let out a slow breath, his chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of a man asleep. For most people it was just a little too slow to be able to keep up with, and dizziness would soon occur, but for Steve, who could hold his breath for five minutes, it was barely anything. He hoped it looked convincing enough for this 'Captain' to feel confident in leaving him behind here to go fix the problem that had bubbled up somewhere else.

There was a loud sigh, somewhat dramatic, and then another creak and the thudding of boots. The Captain had come out of his chair, his footsteps moving over to where the second voice had come from. Halfway across the room, the Captain stopped all of a sudden. There was a silent rustle of clothes, the cracking of leather fabric, and Steve supposed the man had turned to look at him. Steve relaxed as much as he could, maintaining that slow rhythm of rising and falling, lying there on his side next to the chair as if he was deep asleep.

"I don’t think he’ll be wakin' up soon," the second voice said, and Steve felt his stomach swoop low at his mention, "Such a blow… Tullk got him good."

"He already woke up," the Captain said, still standing in the center of the room, most likely still looking at him. Though his heart jumped up a pace, Steve forced himself to stay calm. They had not killed him yet; they had not thrown him in a prison cell or hurt him in any other way than the blow against his head. If they had not done it then, they would not suddenly do it now. "Barely. Was already scoopin' out the room, clever bug. Think he went back t’sleep, but y’r can’t be sure."

"Maybe you should shake ‘m a little, see what happens," the second voice replied.

There was a shuffle of boots, and a silent breath, then the sounds were dampened, as if someone had thrown a blanket over him. The humming of an engine stayed steady beneath Steve’s body, and he could feel it thrill through his bones, but the two by the door seemed to be silent for a moment. Perhaps they were thinking. It was the man of the chair who then spoke again, "Nah, in case he’s asleep, I don’ wanna wake ‘m up either."

There was another sigh, the scuffling of a boot, then a pat of hand on fabric. Steve suspected one of them had patted the other on the shoulder. "I’ll go see to ‘em troublemakers. Keep 'n eye on the boy, would'ya?"

With great strain, Steve kept himself from huffing indignantly. This was the second time that man had referred to him as ‘the boy’. He was not a boy, he was a man, and it was quite patronizing to refer to him as any less than that. And _no_ , that was not a childish thing to say! He knew that he was on the younger side, it seemed to have stunned quite a few people of SHIELD, but he thought their reaction was unnecessary.

He remembered well how Doctor Banner had turned green, his veins popping out against his skin, and his eyes darkening. He had been worried for a moment, afraid he had done something wrong to upset the man, but it turned out it had been his _age_ that was the problem.

He did not really see it himself, though.

One pair of boots left the room, so there was only one left. The man from the chair, presumably the ‘Captain’, had gone away, so now this other man was here with him. When the footsteps of this second man approached him, something of panic rung throughout his system, his heart kicking up a notch and his muscles tensing just slightly. He could not go taut; the man would notice, and he would know Steve was awake. He wanted to avoid that for now. Wake up on his own terms.

It would probably be soon, as lying there with his eyes closed made him sleepy. His body thought he was supposed to be asleep, so it relaxed by itself and introduced a slumber, but he had to stay awake. Stay vigilant, especially with the other man coming right for him. It turned out the man had actually gone for the chair, as the creak of leather and metal told Steve that someone had sat down in it. Opening his eyes to a slit, peering through a curtain of lashes, he could just barely see the pair of worn shoes standing on the floor. Or no— it was just the one shoe. There had been two feet walking, so the man must have lifted the other off the floor.

Lying there in silence, having no idea what was happening above him, Steve shifted his thoughts to the plan of escape. He knew where the door was, the Captain of before was gone to fix a fight on the large vehicle, which meant there was a distraction right now that called the attention. If the Captain had to be brought in, that meant that it was serious. There were probably others involved as well, people who were spurring the fighters on, Steve had seen that many times before. A distraction was just what he needed.

Alright. Time to wake up.

The stretch began in his shoulders, rolling to work out the stiff knots that had settled in there. Then he worked it through the stretch of his toes, through his ankles up to his hips. He made sure to let out an audible puff of breath, working his jaw around the fabric bit that had been forced into his mouth, hoping it would call the attention of the man in the chair and announce his awakening. If he did it loud and obvious now, they would expect the same deal next time. He frowned a little, blinking slowly, not wanting to be attacked by a spell of sudden light in his sensitive pupils.

When he opened his eyes, rolling to his back as to be able to gaze up at the chair, the first thing he saw was that someone else was staring back at him, hanging over the armrest of the pilot chair. The man had a long face with short-cut hair that stood up in tufts above his forehead. There was a set of thin, faint scars that trailed from his hairline down along his eye and the side of his face, indicating some kind of past fight. He had a short beard, and some kind of tattoo behind his left ear. His eyes were a smooth grey, and they stared back curiously. 

"Oh, uh…" the man said then, his chapped lips parted in an uncertain look, "Good mornin’, I guess."

Lying on his back, Steve caught sight of the somewhat low ceiling that seemed to attract dust and grime like a magnet, dirty like it had not been cleaned in many years. It was a set of plates put together, rusty metal grids attached that crossed the ceiling at random, cables and tubes hanging from it alike, with pipes that led to nowhere, and support beams of iron keeping up the mess of random plates. Steve wondered more and more where in the world he could be, what kind of vehicle this was, and if it was even the least safe.

Judging from the man’s grubby appearance, his dirt streaked face and his clothes that could use a wash, he seemed like your everyday kidnapper. A bunch of people who did dirty work for some scraps.

Because he could not speak, he hummed something back instead, making it seem as if he had just woken up from a long slumber by blinking lowly, and stretching his body. Perhaps he should be more panicked, but he wasn’t. Though he was everything but comfortable, he was not in a wild panic and attack of fear and fright. Truth was, he was not that panicked. It was a strange thing to think, but after his years in the army, battling Johan Schmidt and Loki, getting swiped off the ground and taken somewhere was not even that shocking.

"Hadda nice nap?" the man asked, and Steve felt tempted to quirk his brow, feeling miffed at the question, but he kept himself in. His eyes, however, did get some sort of reaction across, as the man’s lips curled up in a bit of an apologetic grin. Steve huffed something back, which only seemed to amuse the other man more.

He wondered if the men who ran this whole operation, this place, had prisoners often, and if they treated all of them like they treated Steve right now. Did they keep all of them close in the control room, having them lie still beside the chair on the floor? It was all so strange, so different from all the other prisoner protocols that Steve had heard of and lived through. In the past, like with Schmidt, he remembered having almost been killed immediately. Then he wondered, did they even have cells here?

While Steve mused in silence, staring off at the ceiling, the man beside him turned the chair, a little clumsily in his movements, almost as if he was not sure how to steer the thing – which he probably did not. In doing so, he flailed out his foot a bit, knocking the toes against Steve’s shoulder on accident as he attempted to spun as gracefully as he could. The kick, even though it was fast, sent a low throb through his body, a kind of cramped, sharp ache speeding through his nerves, and his face twisted up into something pained, but only shortly.

"Oh, sorry, didn’ mean to do that. Uh…" the man rose up from the chair, kneading his hands together as he looked around the room, something Steve had been meaning to do as well. Perhaps this man would allow him to take in the room and its obstacles and doors, and _not_ hit him on the painful spot on head for it, like the previous man had done. This man cast a quick look on him, feet already stepping in a different direction. "Lemme get you something t’drink, you must be thirsty."

Now that the man mentioned it, Steve became annoyingly aware of his dry mouth. The piece of fabric that had been stuffed between his lips, tied tightly to the back of his head, was soaking up the little saliva he had left, which was not only gross, but also caused his tongue to feel like a strip of leather in his mouth. With a groan, he managed to get himself on his side, then push himself up to a sitting position with his bound hands. He considered himself lucky they had not tied his hands behind his back, or all of this would have been a lot harder.

The new man was rummaging through some drawers, and Steve took that time to sneak a peek around. The room was not that big, and the ceiling not that high. He blinked a few times, turning his head left and right, watching the cables and tubes as they lead to various places, sticking into the walls, into control boards, and he saw the lights flicker on and off repeatedly. Far beyond, though only a few meters away, he saw a door. His escape.

Then, he looked down at himself. Seeing that he was wearing his trusted Captain America suit brought him some relief, as it told him that they had not taken his clothes off. His suit was one of a utilitarian-style; designed to be useful and practical rather than attractive. Though that last one was not exactly unseen on his suit. It donned the reoccurring red-white-and-blue, but differently than before. He had the white and red stripes on his abdomen, but also white around his sleeves. Around the white star on his chest sat a black shadow, two triangles around the star's middle points stretching out towards the straps around his shoulders. There were red stripes as well, trailing across his arms and back. 

All the colors were vivid. Blood red, deep navy blue, snow white. They stood out very well, and when he had first seen it, Steve almost expected them to glow in the dark. He ran a hand down his chest, feeling the sturdy material beneath his fingertips. Rough, yet smooth.

" _Oh_ , uhh," the man said then, calling Steve’s attention towards him. Their eyes crossed, and it was fairly obvious that it was Steve who was making him hesitate. Steve, who had just sat up and was now looking around, exactly what he had been hit for on the head _twice_. He supposed that it was a general rule that the prisoner was not allowed to look around. But why put him here then? The man was fiddling a little with the bottle in his hands, "I don’ think the Captain’d approve of you sittin’ up… y’think you can lie back down?"

Was he quite serious? Lying back down? If he would lie on that cold, hard floor for a little longer he thought his muscles would start killing him. They were sore already, chewing him out for lying in such an uncomfortable position for so long, so the last thing he wanted was to do it again. Steve tilted his head back up at the man, then cocked it to the side just slightly, widening his eyes a fraction, making them seem bigger, mimicking something confused. He blinked slowly, hoping in his head that it would work.

It always seemed to work on Stark. Granted, that man was surprisingly easy persuaded by about _everyone_ , mostly because he was willing to do literally everything, and the biggest challenge was often to make him _stop_ doing things, so perhaps that was not that good of an example. It had worked on Natasha as well, sometimes, and even Fury, though he was never sure with those two what the final push was before the caved in, as they never betrayed a thing. He wondered if it were actually the eyes that did the trick, or something else.

Well, he would soon see if it worked on friends and enemies alike.

For now, it _did_. With a feeling of victory swooping low in his belly, Steve saw that the man hesitated, casting quick looks towards the doors, biting his lip as he pondered about something in silence. Then he sighed, deeply, and Steve almost smiled. He knew that sigh. That was the sigh of caving in. That was the sigh that was followed by approval.

"Never mind," the man said, bringing up one hand to rub his eyes, swiping his fingers swiftly across his face, "’s easier to drink sittin’ up anyway."

He approached Steve, who sat down on his behind, placing his feet on the floor before him, knees sticking out towards the ceiling, his bound hands put on one side. It was one of the only positions he could sit comfortably in anyway, his ankles and wrists being tied together. He could now take a look at the shackles, and a spark of satisfaction flickered in his chest when he saw it was the most basic set of cuffs out there. Not the kind of handcuffs that police agents had, but rather a much older kind of set. It had broad cuffs that sat around his wrists and a chain between.

When the guy was occupied with the lid of the bottle, looking off towards the other side, Steve gave the chain an experimental tug, just barely able to keep himself from snorting in disbelieving derision when the chain connected to the cuff gave in to the test so easily that one more tug of his strength would snap the thing loose, so that he was freed. Amateurs. The cuff itself would be a little trickier, as it seemed to be metal snug around his wrist, but it did not obstruct his movement all that much, so he supposed he could leave it while he got himself out of here.

The moment the guy crouched down before him, he quickly lowered his hands and looked up with an expression of feigned curiosity and confusion. The guy soon realized that drinking with cloth stuffed in your mouth was near to impossible, so he handed the bottle over to Steve, and then circled around him to untie the strap of fabric. When it was finally out of his mouth, Steve truly felt how dry and chapped his lips were, and how foreign his tongue felt against his teeth. The man just tossed the gag aside, which brought relief because Steve never wanted to have that thing back in his mouth.

He did not even want to think about where they got that strip of fabric from.

Holding the bottle in his hands a little awkwardly because of the chains, he still managed to tilt it up, bringing the rim to his lips so he could take a careful sip of the liquid that smelled nothing like water, or anything at all. He was surprised to find that it did _taste_ a little like water, but not from a tap or bottle. It tasted like water from a ditch that had once been connected to the sea. It was a little salty, but mostly lukewarm and thick on his tongue. It washed through his mouth, coating his tongue and he frowned in discomfort.

"I know," the man said with the faint shrug of his shoulders, "It’s nothin’ good, but it’s the last we have. We’re makin’ a stop soon, gonna get us some new, fresh drink."

Alright, that was good news, because it would give him the easy opportunity to escape did this one fail, though it still did not make it clear whether he was on a plane or a boat. He guessed boat, because planes did not look like this. Though he did suppose a lot had changed since he last saw the world. It had been a few months now, but he still had not even scratched the surface of what had changed. It was exceedingly difficult for him in particular, because no one seemed to want to help him with it. He could not blame them; all members of the Avengers were busy with their own things.

Because he was still thirsty, and having drank from ditches himself when there was nothing else to drink during the war, he poured some more of the bottle into his mouth, swallowing it as quickly as he could without choking on it. Water was water, and if it was not poisonous it was good enough for him. Something told him that this was the best he would get in a long time.

He supposed that now his mouth was freed, he should ask some questions. He doubted they would be answered, but the guy himself came across as a decent man. He brought Steve water, removed the gag, and he overall seemed to have a fairly calm demeanor. He did not look like a hotheaded fool stomping around, thundering about his own ego, and he had respect for his Captain, who _did_ seem a little rougher around the edges. Steve knew that the man before him should not be underestimated either, no matter what he looked like, because he was still _here_ , and that Captain let him watch their prisoner.

That made him wonder, again, why he was in this control room, and not in a cell.

"Where am I?" he asked, wishing to know where he was at all. His voice was so hoarse that it turned out surprisingly difficult to form the words and push them out of his mouth. He swallowed to ease the scratch, his throat producing a sound that clicked clearly in his ears. Though the water, however gross it may be, had made it a little better.

The man seemed conflicted about answering that particular frame of words, something Steve could understand. The Captain had brought him here for a reason, let him live because they needed him for something that lay outside of his current knowledge. There was something that had caused this train of events, and the man perhaps wondered if it was his place to answer such an important question. Or perhaps the question was too big, and he should try something else first. Something more innocent. Something that would start a conversation that he could build up.

"What’s your name?" Steve asked then, hoping to steer this into the right direction. The man, however, seemed conflicted about that as well. Doubt struck across his face, shining through his eyes, and there was this vague shake of both his head as his shoulders.

"’m not s’posed to answer questions of prisoners," the man answered. Then he let out a deep breath through his nose, visible deflating, and something different of an expression chased away the doubt. Steve leaned forward just a little, bringing the bottle back up to his lips to take another small sip, clenching his jaw at the taste, but at least the warm-ish water soothed his dry throat. Better than ice cold water anyway, as it was not that warm in the room. The man shrugged a little, "But I guess… well, ‘m name is Kraglin, I’m the First Mate of the Capt’n."

A frown formed between Steve’s brows, and for a moment he did not move. He wondered if he had heard it right, or if a strange ring had come to his ear to disrupt his hearing. Judging from the thuds and zooming and crackling that spun up around him, his hearing worked fine. The man’s name was just… quite special. Steve did not think he had heard anything like it. First Mate, Captain… that highly suggested a boat. A boat with a crew. A Captain could be of anything, from a boat, to the army, to a plane, to even a small team of scouts. First mate, however, that was quite a hint.

"Kraglin?" he repeated, and the man nodded. Should he give the man his name as well? But if they had taken him, they knew who he— Before he had even finished that thought, a lightbulb flicked on in his head, and he sat up a little straighter. Keeping the man in his close sights, but not too closely, he said, "Okay… alright… I’m Steve."

He studied the man’s face, looking for any kind of slight feature that twitched or changed. He was looking for… well, he was not sure what he was looking for, but something dawned on him, something he should have realized sooner when he tried out the cuffs. He had thought them to be amateurs, as they should know better than to put Captain America, the literal Super Soldier, into simple cuffs that he could break on a whim.

But what if they _didn’t_ know any better?

What if they had no idea who he was? What if they did not know he was Steve Rogers, AKA Captain America, even though he was wearing his suit?

The man in front of him nodded absentmindedly, giving his name a short mulling over in silence. Or perhaps he was thinking about the Captain and how things were going with the fight instead, Steve would not know. However, Steve did know that _he_ was thinking about it, in the back of his head. A fight could never last long, not on such an enclosed vehicle. The Captain would soon back soon, would he not? Steve would have to be quick before that could happen, otherwise this escape attempt would be ruined.

"A’ight. Steve, huh?" Kraglin said, "That’s a nice name. Simple. Don’ think I heard it much before."

Now Steve _did_ quirk an eyebrow, in surprise and disbelief. That the man had not heard of Steve Rogers in particular he could understand well, as his alias as Captain America was much more known around the world. That was the name that was most often used when referring to him, the alias that they called out over the radio and TV. The name ‘Steve’ _itself_ , however…

Where was this man from? He did not look like he could be from anywhere else than perhaps Southern America? Would that be right? His accent was not of European, Asian or African descend, but rather something from the US. With that, his appearance highly suggested that Asia and Africa were out of the picture, and thus their culture of names. He could very well imagine that not a lot of people in Asia would call their children ‘Steve’, but the man seemed to be either from Europe, even though the accent was wrong, or from America, but there they had _many_ Steve’s running around.

What in the world was going on?

Drawing in a somewhat deeper breath, Steve decided that he had had enough to drink, and it was time to go. He shifted in his position, curling his toes and moving his legs a little to make them ready for the kick that was soon to follow. He was lucky, the man was sitting in his direct way.

Looking down to his hands, he fumbled a bit with the lid of the bottle, trying with clumsy fingers to put it back on the neck. It was all deliberately, of course. His senses heightened, and the muscles in his body contracted as he readied himself for what soon would be. Even though his head was dipped, he kept the man in sharp sights, making his hands tremble just enough to seem genuine as he tried but failed to put the lid back on. It was only a few seconds later that the man, Kraglin, gave him the words he was hoping for.

"Here, lemme help."

The man scooted over closer, lowering himself into a position Steve knew was difficult to push yourself up to your feet in. He would have to move his legs and untangle his limbs before he could, and that worked in Steve’s advantage. The guy reached out his hands, taking hold of the bottle that Steve was purposely keeping close to himself. When Kraglin had leaned in, coming over closer and closer, Steve drew back his head simultaneously, and when Kraglin had, blissfully unaware, leaned n far enough, Steve then propelled forward like a rubber band shooting across a room.

A second later, his head collided with that of the other, who let out a cry of shock, and thrust up his hands, knocking the water bottle away from the both of them. He flew back in his haste to get away, landing on his ass and clutching his skull as strangled noises of pain slipped passed his lips. Steve took that opportunity to twist his hand into the chain between the cuffs, and give it a harsh yank – _snap!_ The chain, together with the cuff, broke as easily as he had expected, and there was only one cuff left on his other wrist. There was no time to get that one off as well, he had to get out.

The man was still in reach of his feet, so Steve kicked them up from the ground, and thrust them out into the other guy’s chest. They hit their goal, and there was one short shout before the man turned silent, lying spread eagle on his back on the floor of the room. Steve went for the cuffs around his legs, finding little trouble in snapping the chain that held them together. He could not do much about the cuffs, though, as they were too snug on his legs to pry his fingers between, so he let them be.

When he pushed himself up from the floor, he soon noticed that that had been a little too enthusiastic, even for him, and he had to close his eyes for a moment until the world stopped spinning. His muscles screamed at him from all throughout his body, not agreeing a little bit with anything he did. They pulled harshly, but Steve pushed through. They would warm up, and he would be fine. He would get out of this place, and everything would be alright.

Darting towards the door, he pushed down the handle, feeling his heart soar when he found the thing was not locked. Something in the back of his head told him that it was too easy, but he ignored it. He pushed the door open, sneaking a peek into the hallway for any people on the lookout, but it seemed empty. He cast a look over his shoulder, feeling a little sad for the man slumped on the ground. Kraglin had been somewhat nice. Had he not been part of the kidnappers, Steve may have actually felt bad about it.

He slipped into the hallway, closing the door behind him as quickly as possible. The click made him jerk up, the sound echoing through the deserted hallway for longer than he liked, and he perked his ears to listen for any footsteps that may be approaching. Nothing.

Feeling confident enough that there were no guards patrolling outside the room he had been in, he sneaked out fully. As he made his way into a direction that he was more of a guess than certainty, he was careful to put his feet down, and to look around every corner before he skirted around it. The hallway was surprisingly long and empty, though he did hear thuds and echoes in the pipes that were hidden above the ceiling. He watched the various, differentiating lamps hang left and right and above. It looked like someone had scoured a garbage dump for anything that looked even remotely like a lamp shade, put a bulb in it, and then hung it up here.

Something told him that that was exactly what they had done.

The whole outlay of the vehicle, which had to be really big to store all this, made it clear that this was nothing like a Quinjet or a normal airplane. It was something much, _much_ bigger. It reminded him of a large ship that ventured the oceans, or perhaps even the Helicarier. Those two things were quite big, and had long hallways and rooms about. Though that did not tell him which of the two it could be. Ship or airplane. Somewhere, he hoped that it was a plane, as he greatly preferred flying across land than floating in the middle of the ocean. Granted, there was always the possibility that they were flying over the ocean.

The lack of rocking, however, made him question the ship possibility. There _was_ some swaying, some odd movement that he could not entirely place, but it was not something of a ship. That, and the smell was completely off. Every ship, no matter where, had a scent of salt in it. It stuck to walls, doors, ceilings, and it would not leave. Sea air slipped through every crack and every window, so it was strange that he only smelled oil, sweat, leather and some other things that he could not place, but that was nothing like the ocean.

Airplane, then?

If it was, he wondered where they left the parachutes. He had been wondering the same thing on board of the Helicarier. He knew it of the Quinjet; a compartment at the side, easily accessible. He wondered if there were enough parachutes for everyone if this whole thing went down, or did they have smaller planes somewhere? He shook his head, making himself focus on the task beforehand. Trapped in an enemy base, the threat of exposure high, hostiles unaware of his inhuman capabilities. It was guessing when that man Kraglin would wake up and sound the alarm, or when the Captain would be back and find his first mate on the floor and the prisoner gone.

He had to be quick, light on his feet, also because too heavy footsteps made his still sensitive head hurt. The thought of the other Avengers crossed his mind, would they look for him? Did they even know he was gone? It was a bit of a haze in his head, a barrier keeping him from remembering what exactly had happened before he had been knocked out, and he was unsure whether it had been a mission that he was on, or an observation. He could not even fully remember where he had been when it happened.

The Captain America suit that he wore suggested that it was a recon mission, or perhaps even a fight mission. No, it was not his stealth suit, but his usual suit. That meant no stealth recon, it would not matter if he came by noticed.

Speaking of noticed… the moment his eyes fell onto the sight that stretched out before him, Steve came to a slow halt in one of the hallways, his eyes widening as he took in what sat plastered against the wall. No, not against, _behind_. Steve wished it was a screen, some kind of billboard, some sort of computer or anything alike, but it was real.

It was a hallowed pool of subtle light against a blackness that spread out against the vast expanse of a void that reached as far as he could see. That great, dark background had adorned itself with millions of diamonds that sparkled and swirled all around the picture, thousands of full and crescent circles in all shapes and sizes, some more close and others many miles away, weaving in dazzling patterns that only they seemed to understand, but that captured his gaze and had him stare in stunned surprise.

A kind of bright light in more colors than just the one radiated from those pin-pricks that were splattered across the black canvass like paint, as if someone had put liquid on a toothbrush and then ran their thumb across it to get all those little specks that seemed to all demand his full attention. Through the glass wall that he stood so closely against, he saw the distorted lights twisting into gleeful patterns, hundreds of constellations that he had never once seen or heard of before presenting themselves right in front of him. 

It was a myriad of lights and colors swirling in front of him, and it filled him with awestruck as much as it filled him with dread. Those streaks of white and red and pink and orange and blue all blended to a mixture of more colors than he could realize, so vivid bursting with life, and it left him breathless as much as it made his heart drop a mile. It punched the air out of his lungs, yet he could not make himself look away. He could not turn his head the other side, or continue his escape. He could only stare.

Nothing about this could be real, _should_ be real. It had to be a trick, a piece of his imagination. Had the blow on his head really shaken him that hard? Was he imagining things that weren’t there? He laid a careful hand on the glass, feeling the smooth surface of thick glass beneath his fingertips, a little chilly, and it sent a shiver down his spine. He cast his eyes back up at the unbelievable sight before him, his lips parting as his jaw slackened, and he sucked in tiny, quick breaths as a sense of panic drummed through his head.

He still had no clue where he was, what he was doing here, who those people were, or what he had to do to get out, but another question had piled itself on top, something even more pressing than it had been before. He did not know where he was, but he did know _one_ thing…

He was not on Earth anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know what brought me here. Sometimes, my head just won't shut up about these random scenario's. I just like Steve Rogers, and I like Yondu. My brain was like "tOgetEr????" and I was like "Yeah. Sure."
> 
> Also, I love a good Steve kidnapping.
> 
> I picked it Pre-Winter Soldier because I wanted to exclude the whole HYDRA/Bucky thing, but Post-GotG 2, because I freaking love Mantis and Nebula.


End file.
